Search This Blog

Insecure Writer's Support Group

It feels like a psycho killer chopped me into pieces and tossed them out the window of his orange 1962 Chevy pickup truck while driving in the middle of nowhere somewhere.

Life happens to the best of us -- bankruptcy, death, illness, birth, natural disasters and office moves all at the same time so you're drowning every morning before you even step in the shower. There's a lot going on in my circle, and most of it is completely out of my control, which is great -- I guess, if you're one of those serene, wise folks they write about on refrigerator magnets. I'm not. I'm unstable which means I worry too much about the crap I can't control and not enough about the crap I can.

For example: they told me at work "you may be relocated."

"No," I shouted.

"It's out of your control," they told me. "We need to make room for new employees."

"What about my team?"

"Get back to work."

I couldn't get back to work. I stared around the room at all of my coworkers, most of whom I'm very fond of, and wondered how I would manage in a different room with new people.

What if they don't like me?

What if they smell bad?

What if they're boring?

Will they toilet paper my desk when I go on vacation?

Will they complain if I sing songs about bodily functions?

I couldn't sleep, which made me unreliable and bitchy, and my kids complained that I was mean to them, because I was tired and impatient and yelled at them for every little thing.

"STOP CLIMBING THE DOORS!"

I chewed my nails until my fingers bled, and every night after work -- when I usually sit down and write -- I lay on the couch pouting and yelling that everything sucks all of the time. My husband's clients never pay him on time; our mortgage is late; our house is dirty; the neighbor across the street is plotting to kill us all; my dad's going to buy a motorcycle and drive on the freeway; my kids will be teenagers someday; it smells like Old Spice; and Mr. Jefferson died a week ago and nobody even told me.

No wonder I haven't been writing.

I was really broken over it -- not writing -- until I stopped caring. There has to be some flexibility in your schedule for emotional breakdowns and inconvenience, otherwise you'll have an aneurysm or a heart attack and die. You can't do anything when you're dead.

* The Insecure Writer's Support Group: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Get link

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Google+

Email

Get link

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Google+

Email

Comments

Wow - what a deal. No wonder your nervous and upset. I can say, with all you've got going on, mark 'the house is dirty' off your list. If you saw mine, you'd feel better. It would make yours look like something out of Better Homes. ;)

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Imagine a little girl in pink granny glasses. Her haircut gives her a boyish look and she’s dressed in a purple checked sweater with red high waters and electric-blue duck shoes. A couple of kids on the playground tell her how cool she looks, and -- not comprehending their sarcasm -- she smiles brightly and thanks them. That was me -- the dork in ginormous glasses. I answered to many names in elementary school -- loser, duck feet, four eyes and a few others I'd rather forget -- smart, pretty and fashionable I was not. It felt like the end of the world back then. All the popular girls braided each other's hair during story time at the library while I picked my nose and talked to myself. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I was a dork -- as big a dork as it's possible to be -- and it gave me character. I think Lester Bangs said it best : "Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts." No one called 4-year-old Paris Hilton -- or Lindsay Lohan or B…

Welcome

About Me

/AB-E-NORMAL/ I'm a neurotic artist and writer who can't find a living-wage job in my field, because literacy and creativity aren't marketable skills. I used to be a newspaper reporter until the world dumped newspapers and newspapers dumped me with a heart felt "you are a great reporter, and this has nothing to do with your performance."